A Modern Myth
by Diana Leto
Summary: When Mrs. Hudson incurs the wrath of the most dangerous consulting criminal, Sherlock will ultimately pay the price. A retelling and reimagining of the myth of Andromeda. T simply for violence.
1. The Insult

It was a rather sad turn of events that led to Molly Hooper standing on the roof of St. Bart's with a gun pointed at her. It, however, wasn't very surprising considering it was Sherlock Holmes she was connected to and it was Sherlock Holmes who got her into this mess in the first place. She couldn't really blame him, not that she ever did, he hadn't exactly _asked_ to be kidnapped. She suppressed the urge to rethink her life decisions once again as she tuned back into what the man holding the gun was saying. He really was droning on, but then again, they always do don't they? The cynical voice in her head sounded just like Sherlock and she wasn't sure if that was an entirely healthy development.

"You cannot stop me!" The raspy voice of her would-be killer hysterically yelled. She forced herself not to roll her eyes at that particular gem of insanity and instead asked the one question that kept popping up.

How had this all started?

_Two Weeks Earlier_

Mrs. Hudson sat down to tea at her usual spot on Thursdays. The cozy tea room was filled with soft sunlight and the faint buzz of conversation. Her usual table was covered in a delicate lace table cloth and a rose patterned tea set was gently placed before her. She had been coming here for years and they always expected her, always had her brew waiting, and even began providing her with complimentary tea sandwiches and cakes. She filled her cup and brought the saucer up preparing to take her first sip.

She was interrupted by the voice of a woman, soft and sophisticated. "Do you mind if I join you?" The woman didn't wait for her to respond and took the empty chair opposite. "We haven't met before but we have a friend in common." Mrs. Hudson put down her forgotten saucer and took in the woman opposite her.

The sleek black updo, the bright red lipstick, the skin tight black dress, and some of the highest heeled shoes Martha Hudson had ever seen told her this woman wasn't a common acquaintance of John's. That could only mean she knew her Sherlock.

Martha Hudson knew too well that the people who knew Sherlock weren't usually the most savoury of individuals. "What can I help you with dear?" She noticed how the young woman's lip twitched slightly at this appellation.

Her tone was conciliatory and put Mrs. Hudson on edge. "It isn't what you can do for me so much as what I can do to you." That made the skin on the back of her neck break out in goose flesh and her breath catch in her throat. The young woman leaned forward and grinned wickedly. "Mrs. Hudson," she reached out and placed her hand over Mrs. Hudsons. "There is only one thing you need to worry about right now. Your precious Sherlock."

This bit of advice shook her deep in her core. She had just gotten her Sherlock back, he can't be taken from her now. With more bravery than she knew she possessed she pulled her hand away from the woman seated across from her and rose to her feet. With the iciest tone she could muster she leaned forward and said the five words she would soon live to regret. "Sherlock is smarter than you." She meant it as a sign that she didn't need to fear for his safety. She knew he would be able to outthink this woman and anyone else who came after him. What she didn't know was this woman took it as a challenge.

_One Week Later_

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, sat in his Baker Street flat all alone. The silence was deafening and he was just beginning to regret his decision to not find a new flatmate after John had married Mary. Sherlock liked Mary, they got on quite well, and John was happy. That didn't keep Sherlock from having John along on cases at all hours of the night and for days on end, but it did cause Sherlock to suffer from boredom more often than before. John had always been there when Sherlock was bored, yammering on inanely, filling the silence with his sentimental drivel or pointless chit-chat. But alas, that was no more.

Sherlock sighed dramatically and repositioned himself on the sofa, hands under his chin, fingers steepled, eyes closed. To an outside observer, with the exception of one Dr. Molly Hooper, Sherlock would have appeared to be resting, peaceful even. The truth, as Molly would see it and as Sherlock would begrudgingly admit, was that he was going crazy. He was restless, his mind wouldn't stop wandering about, his mind palace was a complete mess, and his true, corporeal flat wasn't in any better shape.

The light rapping on his flat's door caused his left brow to raise slightly. He wasn't expecting any visitors and he wasn't looking for any cases just yet. Though he should be, he had promised Mary to not take a case this week so that she and John could go on holiday for their anniversary or some other such romantic nonsense. He pointedly ignored the second knock on his door and mental wished the intruder away. He only needed to wait until tomorrow afternoon. Then John's little holiday would be over and Sherlock could finally be cured of his boredom.

It was the fourth incessant knock that drew a huff of impatient air from his lips. "What do you want?" He was already quite bored with whoever this was and he hadn't even opened his eyes. He could tell it was a woman by the persistence of the knocking and the light pressure applied to it. He could hear the click-clack of high heeled shoes on his wooden floors and could smell the strongly feminine perfume wafting off of her. It smelled oddly familiar but his mind couldn't place it.

His mind raced to make the connection between the smell and some faintly unpleasant memory. It was only a matter of moments from when the person entered the flat to when Sherlock had placed the scent. The Woman. His eyes flew open just in time for him to feel the sharp prick of the needle in his neck and hear her bubbling laughter overtake him. He began to feel heavy almost instantaneously. She had drugged him once before and he had never forgotten the feeling. She leaned forward over his prone body and whispered in his ear.

Her warm breath tickled his ear causing him to cringe. He didn't like people to be so close to him and having her warm, wet breath on his face was most unwelcome. "Sherlock dear, you really should remind your lovely landlady that I don't like competition. If you think you're so much smarter than me you won't have too hard a time solving this little mystery." She moved away and placed a painfully hard kiss upon his left cheek. Her lipstick left a mark and she smirked. "Something to remember me by." The darkness finally claimed him and she left him where he lay.

Mrs. Hudson arrived in his flat twelve hours later with his morning tea. She saw Sherlock sleeping on the couch and thought nothing of it, he often slept there, letting exhaustion take over. She bustled about the kitchen, tidied up the living room, and even ran a small Hoover over the curtains. She hadn't realized how much time she had spent cleaning until she heard John come up the stairs. Usually Sherlock awoke quickly and shooed her out.

John took off his coat and hung it next to Sherlock's Belstaff and sat in his usual chair. He looked over to Sherlock and raised a questioning brow to Mrs. Hudson. She shrugged but then walked a little closer. While she stared intently at John she asked him why he was here so early. He chuckled and answered jovially.

"I'd hardly say half past one in the afternoon is early Mrs. H." He smiled at her before turning his focus back to Sherlock. A concerned look graced his features. "How long has he been asleep?"

Mrs. Hudson turned to John, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Since before I arrived, not sure how long though. I've been here since I brought the morning tea at quarter till seven. I've never seen him sleep this long whilst I'm here, I wasn't exactly silent either. He slept straight through the vacuuming of the curtains. I can usually only get that done when you are out of the city on a case." She turned back to him, a knot of fear growing in her stomach. The words of the woman from a week ago passed through her mind, _"There is only one thing you need to worry about right now. Your precious Sherlock." _ What if this is what she had meant.

She hastily looked to his chest, breathing easier when she saw that it was moving up and down slowly. It wasn't until her mind settled once again, the fear for Sherlock's life momentarily subsided, when she noticed the rather unusual spot of coloring on his cheek. She stepped closer and gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth. She shook her head from side to side, refusing to believe what she saw. John was on his feet immediately, rushing to her side, checking to see if she was alright. He saw her look of horror and followed her gaze.

John noticed the lipstick print on the side of Sherlock's face. It was like a calling card, a signature, and it could only belong to one person. Irene Adler. That explained Sherlocks current state of unconsciousness, she must have drugged him again. John moved to his best friends side and took his vitals, noticing the small drop of blood on his neck where he had been injected. Sherlock seemed to be alright, they simply needed to wait until he awoke to find out what had happened.


	2. The Unfolding

_Three Hours Later_

A very groggy Sherlock Holmes shuffled into the kitchen and grabbed the cup of hot coffee offered to him. He gulped it down, ignoring the pain in his mouth and throat, trying to bombard his system with as much caffeine as quickly as possible. Once his cup was empty he sat down hard on a kitchen chair and looked at John with heavy-lidded eyes. The crust of drool still hung to the right hand corner of his mouth and his curls were even wilder than usual. He looked absolutely miserable and John had to keep himself from laughing at his friend.

He cleared his throat and snapped his paper to straighten out the fold. "Sleep well?" He tried to sound innocent but at the very last moment his voice had risen in pitch and his throat had tightened up ever-so-slightly as he forced his laughter back down. He could almost feel the heat of Sherlock's glare.

Sherlock spoke in the same nearly slurred speech as last time, his words however held the same disdain and condescension as always. "John, do refrain from making jokes. You know very well I was unconscious, not asleep. There is a marked difference between the two." He huffed a deep breath out and reached for John's plate of food. A half eaten turkey sandwich and some crisps were left over from his late lunch. Sherlock made quick work of the left-overs and gulped down two more cups of coffee and three glasses of water.

John put his paper down and looked Sherlock over, he seemed to be more awake, ready to go. John licked his lips in anticipation of the coming conversation. He would never truly admit to finding this whole life of crime and intrigue interesting. It was hard to deny though, he was clearly an adrenaline junkie and being friends with Sherlock was the ultimate fix.

"So, do you want to tell me what happened last night?" He waited for Sherlock to shoot him down or begin his tirade, hands waving about, violin clutched in one hand, bow in the other.

Sherlock, however, disappointed John by simply responding, "I will once you have retrieved Mrs. Hudson. I have a few questions for her. "

John nodded mutely and made his way down to Mrs. Hudson's flat. He knocked on the door and after there wasn't an answer he let himself in. The sharp pain that ripped across his chest at what sight greeted him was almost as acute as the day he saw Sherlock jump to his death.

Sherlock rushed down to his landladies apartment when he heard the cry for help from John. He had already dialed 999 and an ambulance was on the way, Lestrade had also been notified and was, presumably, driving over as well. Sherlock burst through the door and stopped dead in his tracks. This was not the sight he had expected to see. Mrs. Hudson injured, yes. John injured, yes. An intruder injured, yes. Some combination of the three, yes. What greeted him was beyond his expectations and the fight between horror and intrigued waged within him. He assumed he should feel shame or embarrassment at being excited at what he saw but he didn't. The Woman's words to him last night finally made sense.

The paramedics finally arrived and rushed in only to be told that their services were not needed. Lestrade burst through the door and his jaw nearly dropped to the floor. The metallic smell that hung in the air caused his stomach to turn and the words smeared on the wall facing him caused his heart to constrict and twist about in pain. He immediately sprung into action, his training kicking in. He began barking orders to the officers present.

"I want a sample of the blood collected and sent to St. Bart's immediately, put a rush on it. Let Dr. Hooper know who it's for. I want the whole place dusted for prints and photographs need to be taken of the writing on the wall and sent to the Yard. No one touches anything without gloves on, I want a full crime scene tech unit here. Nothing should be left unchecked." As the orders flowed from his mouth Sherlock took in every detail of the room.

Lestrade turned to him and waited until Sherlock's eyes finally settled on the words written in blood. He asked the one question he always seemed to be asking, "What do you see?"

Sherlock turned to him, concern lightly dusted upon his features. He turned back to the wall and spoke rapidly in a steady voice, no trace of anxiety or concern present. "No sign of struggle present, Mrs. Hudson would have fought back at least so perhaps she was incapacitated or knew the attacker or had her back turned and didn't see him coming. The assailant was clearly male, 185 Cm, approximately 107 Kg, military training." Anticipating the question of _how_ he knew that he barrelled on. "From the footprints left in the blood I can tell shoe size and approximate weight, the highest point of the writing is still thick showing that the writer wasn't stretching on their toes to reach the highest point. As for military training, the words are cleanly and precisely written, the language also indicates someone with basic military hierarchical understanding. I would say whoever did this was in his mid-thirties and is now working as a hired gun."

Lestrade was, as usual, amazed and frazzled by Sherlock's observations. "Well what about _what_ he wrote. What does it mean?" He looked back at the message on the couldn't even begin to imagine what it said but he knew that if anyone did, it would be Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was staring intently at the writing, his head at an angle. He didn't immediately answer Lestrade but that didn't cause the Detective Inspector to reiterate his question. Sherlock was busy but he had heard him and would answer when he was ready.

Sherlock was mumbling to himself, his focus entirely on his mind palace, the rest of the world but an annoying hum at the back of his mind. He finally opened his eyes and began speaking in his rapid fire speech once again. "It appears to be Old Norse rune markings. I am _unfamiliar_ with the language and will need to consult an expert." That was it, it came out in such a rush John and Lestrade weren't entirely sure that they had actually understood. Sherlock had just admitted to not knowing something, he needed expert help. John thought seeing Sherlock drugged once again would be the most surprising thing to happen to his best friend for the day but he was wrong. Seeing Sherlock completely uncomfortable with his little admission of ignorance took the cake.

Sherlock shuffled from foot to foot, unsure where to settle his eyes. Eventually a commotion in the hall drew everyone's attention. The person who walked through the door and gasped in surprise was the last person they expected to see.

_Four Hours Later_

Dr. Molly Hooper was many things but stupid was not one of them. Not even Sherlock Holmes, the most observant man in the world, had ever attempted to question Molly's intelligence. In fact, it was her intelligence and skill that led to Sherlock asking for her help to fake his death. It was her intelligence and skill that provided her with a remarkable job in a field dominated by men at a surprisingly young age. It was her intelligence and skill that kept her alive, and it was that same intelligence and skill that was failing her.

She looked through her microscope once more to confirm what she already knew. The printout of the DNA test was at her side, 99.5% match confirmed who the DNA belonged to, and her own microscopic comparison wasn't offering up any contrasting evidence. There was no denying that what lay before her in the test tubes and what was smeared on Mrs. Hudson's freshly papered wall was the blood of the world's only consulting detective.

It was as she resigned herself to accepting the impossible truth that the man in question burst through the door to the lab. Ever dramatic with the sweep of his Belstaff coat and the flick of his scarf, Sherlock approached Molly. Things were different now that he was back from the dead, well and from exile, but she wasn't sure what that meant. Her engagement had been over for almost a year and he had been back with the living for half-again longer, but what did that change? He was nicer to her, that was certain. He asked for her help more readily, sure. He often held back biting comments and observations, which was nice, truly nice. He even, on the rare and much treasured occasion, would genuinely compliment her. It wasn't the type of compliment he usually gave her, designed simply to get him what he wanted, no. It was sweeter, truer, and he never, well not never but rarely, wanted anything in return.

Sherlock knew that he needed only ask Molly and she would do what she could for him, anything for him. He didn't need to manipulate her or break her heart to get her to help him. In fact, he found rather surprisingly, if he was just honest and considerate she put up less of a fight. She was drawn from her microscope and her musing on what could only be a great mystery by the sound of her name being spoken.

"Molly." She looked up, the deep baritone of his voice immediately drawing her eyes to him, not that she'd look elsewhere if she could help it. He gave her a small smile and stepped close to her. It was closer than totally necessary but Molly wasn't complaining. "I trust you have the test results."

She nodded her head and picked up the sheet of paper from the table top. She handed it to him, relaying the results to John and Lestrade as she watched Sherlock's eyebrows raise. "It's confirmed almost 100%. The blood is yours, Sherlock. I just can't understand it though. The last time you would have even been available in a hospital to have your blood drawn was after you were shot." John looked down uncomfortably at this and Lestrade shot him a sympathetic look. Sherlock dismissed it and Molly just ignored his discomfort.

"Well?" She asked finally after he just stared at the paper for several moments. Normally Sherlock didn't take this much time to formulate an hypothesis. She raised a brow at him. The Molly Hooper from before The Fall was never this brave or outspoken in his presence. She was strong and confident around all other people but turned into a stammering school girl around him. Not anymore though, now she was nearly as confident around him as she was around everyone else. She still felt nervous around him but it was a more comfortable nervousness.

He looked up at her and met her brow with one of his own. "I didn't have blood drawn whilst in the hospital. They needed to _give_ me blood, not take it away. Doctors can be surprisingly ignorant and stupid but even they wouldn't make such a mistake as take blood _from_ a gunshot victim." When he realized that he had indeed insulted Molly's entire profession he amended his statement to exclude her. "That is Molly, most doctors, you of course, are exempted from such stupidity."

He heard John grunt behind him. He had forgotten that John was even there and had, at some point, chosen to ignore that fact that John was also a doctor. "Yes John you as well. Are we done complaining? Good." He turned his attention back to Molly. "That means that you are the last person to have access to my blood. Was the blood from Mrs. Hudson's flat coagulated?" Molly scrunched her face trying to draw up as much information as possible.

"It wasn't coagulated but appeared to have been treated with an anticoagulant. We automatically add anticoagulants to all blood drawn here. It's in the vials used to store blood and the blood bags also have a small amount within them. When I drew your blood a few years ago the blood would have been treated. The problem is, donor blood only lasts for 42 days. Frozen blood can last up to 10 years after donation." Sherlock seemed to perk up at this but Molly held up a hand to stop him. "No Sherlock, that can't be it either. I only drew enough blood for the suicide play. I didn't store any extra and I certainly didn't freeze any of it. There has to have been a time within the last 10 years you could have had your blood drawn and frozen." She spoke quieter. "Before the Fall or…. or, maybe after?" She leaned forward on her stool ever so slightly. Just near enough to Sherlock to feel the warmth radiating off of his body. She spoke gently, broaching a difficult subject that everyone seemed to avoid. "You were away for two years Sherlock, did anything… happen during that time?"

He closed his eyes, shutting out the look of sympathy already taking up the majority of Molly's face. He had been adamant that his actions whilst away were not to be discussed. He didn't need to revisit the reasons for his most unsettling nightmares. He sighed and moved closer to Molly. He grabbed her small, delicate hand and held it in his larger one. She looked up into his blue-green eyes and smiled softly.

With one last swallow to settle his nerves he answered her question. It wasn't easy for him. He wasn't a man of sentiment or emotion but his two years away had changed him. He was softer somehow, more aware of his emotions and the emotions of others. His voice was quiet, as if speaking any louder would scare the monsters out of the shadows. "Many things happened while I was away Molly, you know that. I have never spoken of what occurred during my time away, not to anyone." She was about to protest or accept defeat, he didn't know which. He squeezed her hand to silence her and she obeyed.

"There were many times when I was away that I was close to death. Injured, hiding, chased, hunted. There are, however, only two instances in which my blood could have been taken from me without my knowledge and only one in which medical supplies were involved." He looked back into his memory. Unlocking the door in his mind palace where he had exiled all of the memories and emotions from that time, save the useful ones of course. He pulled forth the memory of his time spent in Germany.

_Two Years, Three Months, and Twelve Days Ago_

He was running as fast as he could through the corridor….

The newest hospital in the Büdingenarea had already been erected so the older Mathilden-Hospital was nearly abandoned. Only a skeleton staff in the emergency response area was active. He had hoped to discretely access the personnel files of the part-time staff. After successfully sneaking his way into the Human Resources office he discovered, just as he expected, that the paper files were packed up and waiting to be sent over to the new hospital location.

The first eight boxes, and nearly as many hours later, had proven useless. It was when he was halfway through the ninth that he picked up the file of Dr. Johannes Faust. Dr. Faust was a part-time orthopaedic surgeon and pathologist. Sherlock's mind briefly flitted to another pathologist but he shook away that line of thought and focused on the task at hand. Dr. Faust, 45, balding black hair, grey eyes, average height and weight. Sherlock thought nothing of him until he noticed that Dr. Faust asked for holiday often, and had received his medical degree through the military. A quick internet search showed that the good doctor was also married, clearly had a mistress, no children, and more liquid capital than should be possible, even for a doctor.

Just as he was putting the doctor's file in a pile reserved for the interesting cases, which consisted of Dr. Faust and a nurse named Kunigunda Mohn. He was just reaching for the next file when he heard someone come into the office. From the sound of the voices it was a man and a woman. They were whispering to each other.

She whispered to him, apparently trying to dissuade their current course of action. "Nein, was ist, wenn uns jemand findet?" _No, what if someone finds us?_

The man with her wasn't too worried. He replied as seductively as the German language would allow. "Keine Sorge, wir sind ganz allein. Wir können tun, _was wir_ wollen." _Do not worry, we're all alone. We can do what we want. _

Sherlock rolled his eyes. How romantic. Yes lets sneak back to one of the offices and disrobe each other. Oh yes, lets risk our jobs and the sanitation of the hospital just to sate our physical desires. Idiots. Sherlock was above the desires of the flesh. Despite this he couldn't help but imagine himself pushing his pathologist into the nearest office back at Bart's. He knew she had imagined it herself. Molly was quite obvious in that regard. He slammed that door closed in his mind palace and formulated a plan of escape.

He had just prepared himself to sneak out when the woman spoke out again. Her voice breathy, no doubt from the copious amounts of kissing she and the man had been partaking in. "Johannes, Ich kann nicht" _Johannes, I can not._ Johannes? What luck, the game is afoot and the prey has brought himself to Sherlock. When Johannes responded in a disgruntled tone and berated Kunigunda for being so prudish Sherlock felt as though the universe was giving him a gift. His two suspects were connected and now they were both present, ready for his questioning.

He hadn't truly thought through his next course of action before he implemented it. In all honesty he really should have known better but he was Sherlock Holmes and knowing when to keep his mouth shut was not something he was great at. So he, of course, stood from his crouched position behind a desk and spoke the six words that would soon cause him a world of hurt.

"Ah, I've been waiting for you." The two separated from their embrace and turned to him with startled expressions on their faces. Johannes was through the door faster than Sherlock would have expected and Kunigunda just stood there stunned. Sherlock gave her a stern look before running after Johannes. The corridor was dimly lit and eerily silent. It wasn't difficult to make out the thwacking sound of running feet around the corner. Sherlock bolted in that direction, feet adding to the silence. He was running as fast as he could through the corridor, intent on catching Johannes. He noticed the absence of an accompanying set of foot falls and slowed his pace.

His prey was hiding in a darkened doorway and surprised Sherlock. The metal pipe crashed into his face with enough force to knock him onto the linoleum floor. Just as the pain began to blur his vision he heard Johannes speaking to Kunigunda, instructing her to grab the equipment. It was in the following hours at the hospital that Sherlock learned about Johannes' other specialty. Using medical equipment to implement torture was not a particularly new idea, nor was it particularly inventive, but it was definitely affective.

_Two Years, Three Months, and Twelve Days Later._

"When I finally regained consciousness and managed to escape it was four days later. I had several needle marks and had clearly had blood drawn. I assumed at the time that he took the blood to weaken me or to frame me for a crime later. It was almost four months before I found Johannes Faust again. He had killed Kunigunda when she tried to leave him and was hiding out in Romania. I _questioned_ him before I turned him over to more official justice seekers. He let me know that the blood was taken as a request by his employer. Again I _assumed_, apparently incorrectly, that it was a standing order from Moriarty and not a new order from a new employer."

Molly squeezed his hand comfortingly. "It's okay Sherlock, we'll figure this all out." She gave him a small smile and decided to distract him from the past by focusing on the case at hand. "What about what was written on the wall? What did it say?" Sherlock stepped back and removed his hands from Molly's, taking his warmth with him.

Sherlock pulled a folded photo out of his pocket and handed it to her. She looked down at it in surprise. "I don't know what it says." He admitted to her. Somehow telling it to Molly was easier than when he had admitted it to John and Lestrade. Perhaps because Molly truly saw him for who he was and not just the pompous genius everyone else saw. "Once we leave Bart's we'll head to the British Museum to consult an expert."

Molly smiled up at him, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Or you could just ask me." He frowned at this and she elaborated. "My gran on my dad's side is from Reykjavik, she spent one summer teaching me all about Vikings. We even learned the runic alphabet so we could write to each other in code." Molly chuckled at the memory. "Give me a few minutes and I'll have this translated for you." Once again Sherlock was amazed by Molly's intelligence.

"Thank you Molly, that would be most helpful." Sherlock turned to speak to John only to notice that both he and Lestrade had left. He frowned at this, he hadn't noticed them leaving. Molly was already engrossed in the puzzle of the runes and hadn't taken notice either.

Just as promised Molly finished translating the text in a matter of minutes. She frowned at the words on the paper. "It doesn't make sense, I don't recognize a lot of these words. Most sound like English."

Sherlock leaned in closer to her from his own stool and gazed at her translation and understood what she meant. "Win thu kuen bosts, thu belovid kild sal sufer. Met our kaling or thu kingdom of thu angels sal be ravagd." Molly couldn't help but think of this as a form of Mad Gab. "Maybe it's a transliteration and not an actual translation." Molly leaned over the photo once again and Sherlock could hear her muttering to herself, presumably sounding out each word. Moments later she exclaimed excitedly. "I've got it! 'When the Queen boasts, the beloved child shall suffer. Meet our challenge or the Kingdom of the Angels shall be ravaged.'"

Sherlock looked down at her with absolute awe on his face. "Molly that was brilliant."

Molly blushed and shrugged. "It was quite simple once I knew what to do."

"That doesn't make it any less brilliant Molly." He pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head and grabbed her transliteration. "I'll text you later if I need anything." With those last few words he was out of the lab and on his way to find John and Lestrade. He needed to get back to Baker Street to continue his research.


	3. The Conclusion

_One Hour Later_

Sherlock sat at his desk with Molly's laptop open before him. She had left it there days ago when he had her over to help with an experiment. He hadn't told her where it was nor, obviously, asked for permission to use it. He had just finished his latest search for the possible origin of the words written on Mrs. Hudsons wall when his door creaked open. He looked up to see the woman bustle in with a tray in her hands. She knew he didn't eat while on a case so he couldn't fathom why she always insisted on bringing him food.

Sherlock looked over to her and voiced the very question. Her only response was a warm smile and a knowing look. He didn't quite understand her reasoning behind that until he heard another set of footsteps coming up the stairs to his flat. They were light and timid, clearly they belonged to Molly. He looked guiltily to her laptop and benignly to Mrs. Hudson who made a quick retreat, letting Molly in as she left.

Molly nervously pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and looked up at Sherlock. He was still seated at his desk, unsure of what to do. "Um, I came over to… wait? Is that my laptop?" She moved quickly towards the desk, Sherlock could feel his breath catch in his throat. "Sherlock," even when she said his name in that annoyed voice it still made his heart race, maybe even more so. "I've been looking for this all week. Why didn't you tell me that it was here?"

He looked down at his hands, poised over the keyboard, and tried to come up with an explanation that wouldn't cause Molly to become flustered. In all honesty he had not told her because he was hoping it would cause her to return to the flat. He knew eventually she would remember she had left it here and she would need to visit him again. Could he tell her that? Most likely but what would she do in return? He didn't want to risk upsetting whatever it was that was happening between them. Sherlock Holmes was truly a coward when it came to Molly Hooper.

Instead he decided that instead of answering he would tell her what he discovered. "I've just been searching those words you transliterated." Molly moved closer coming to stand behind him, bending forward to look at the screen. He forced himself to focus on the screen and not on the faint hint of vanilla wafting off of Molly.

She read the screen quickly and scrunched up her face in thought. "So, they are reenacting a myth?" She didn't sound too certain. "Why would they do that? It doesn't make any sense."

Sherlock grabbed the pad of paper he had been taking notes on and held it above his shoulder for Molly to grab. Their fingers grazed each other lightly and he could feel the skin tingle where they touched. Molly of course didn't react at all. She was already engrossed in all of his notes. He had already cast every character based on the information and the roles they play. Molly was reading through the character list when a frown marred her features. "I'm sorry Sherlock but can you explain this to me?"

He turned his body to face her and patiently waited for her question. Normally he would have brushed off such a request and asked the dolt who voiced it to either be silent or leave. However, he felt inclined to do nearly everything that Molly asked of him, even humour inane questions that had obvious answers. She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear and looked up to him. "I just don't understand. Why would John be the oracle and not Perseus? Doesn't it make more sense for him to be your saviour than me?" He had anticipated that question and had already formulated multiple responses.

He chose the one closest to the truth without revealing too much of his heart. "In the myth, Andromeda and Perseus fall in love. He saves her, is enraptured by her beauty, and whisks her away to be his bride. I hardly think John will be whisking me away." He smirked at her and she giggled. Wonderful. As long as she was giggling she wouldn't be too worried about the fact that she has to, at some point in the not too distant future, save him.

She looked down at the paper again, another question fresh on her tongue. "In the myth Hades and Poseidon send a monster to ravage the land. We haven't been ravaged have we?" She looked at him, concerned at what that could entail for the people of London.

"No, I believe they are waiting for me to figure this out before they truly begin the reenactment. They wouldn't want their Andromeda to misinterpret the signs." He sighed and looked away. "One can only hope that they don't hurt anyone because of me." He whispered the last confession, hoping both that Molly would and wouldn't hear him.

A hand found its way into his curly hair and was gently massaging his scalp. He leaned into it slightly and brought his arms around her waist. Molly knew that comfort was not something that Sherlock commonly needed but when he did she was willing to offer. He pressed his face into her abdomen, drinking in her warmth, pushing out the worries of the word, if only for a moment. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and just held him there. Both were oblivious to the world.

After a few moments of silent companionship Molly pulled away slightly, feeling a little uncomfortable with the prolonged contact. Sherlock looked up at her with a quizzical expression. Molly continued running her hand through his curls as she spoke again.

"Sherlock, if people do start to get hurt. Well …. how are we going to 'sacrifice' you?" She let out a frustrated puff of air. "Furthermore, how am I going to save you? I'm not a soldier like John, or important like Mycroft. Lestrade has a gun, I don't have anything. When I'm in trouble I turn to you." Her voice grew progressively quieter as she continued her confession.

Sherlock tightened his grip on her waist and held her gaze. He cleared his throat, fighting down something that felt strangely like a swelling of tears. "Molly," his voice came out softly, "when _I'm _in trouble _I _turn to _you_." He took a deep breath, calming his racing heart. She smiled down at him and he gave her a rare smile in return. His next words were filled with the same confidence he had used when they had planned out his fake death. "Molly, this is what I think they have planned and this is how we are going to beat them."

Four Days Later

Molly stood in the morgue looking over the body of a young woman with two gunshot wounds to her chest. She clicked on the recorder and began her preliminary examination. "Female patient, twenty-four years of age. Blonde hair, muscular build. Two entry wounds to the left Sternocostal Head of Pectoralis Major Muscle." She rolled her left shoulder off of the table to check her left shoulder blade. "No exit wounds. Hands show no sign of defensive measures, fingernail scrapings will be collected and sent to lab." She looked up at the sound of the door opening. She smiled slightly to Sherlock as he silently approached. She turned back to her observations. Sherlock always enjoyed watching her work. "Small bruise to the back of the right Lateral Gastrocnemius, coloring shows that it is at least two days old. No other external trauma. Liver temperature indicates patient died around 10pm yesterday night. More findings when I begin my internal examination."

Molly switched off the recorder as she got her tray ready for the autopsy. "Do you need anything before I begin?" She asked Sherlock. He shook his head and once more looked at the body on the table. Molly followed his gaze. "Jane Doe 247-8. No identification and no missing person's report." Molly furrowed her brow. "It always makes me sad when people come into my morgue without a name. Doesn't anyone miss her?" She whispered the last part.

Sherlock stepped forward, invading her personal space. "I'm sure someone misses her. We'll find out who she is and why someone would do this to her." He reached out a tentative hand and she watched with wide eyes. He moved his hand away and looked around in uncharacteristic nervousness, as though worried about being observed. "I'm going to make coffee, can I get you a cup?"

He had never offered before so she just silently nodded her head and watched him leave the morgue. He returned twenty minutes later with two steaming cups of coffee in his hands. Molly had just finished removing Jane Doe's rib cage when he entered. She continued on recording her findings. "Internal trauma consistent with GSW. Perforated and collapsed left lung, torn liver, and blood in the abdominal cavity. Right bronchi has been torn from the lung sack. Bullet 1, topmost GSW, is lodged in the left scapula, Bullet 2, leftmost GSW, is lodged in the fourth Thoracic Vertebrae. Both projectiles have been removed for further analysis. Lungs contain bursted avioli and advanced petechial hemorrhage in the eyes indicate a lack of oxygen. Cause of death: suffocation." She clicked off the recorder and looked over to where Sherlock sat at the microscope already looking at the samples she had retrieved for him. She looked up at the clock on the wall and noticed that it was already half past eight, she had spent two hours on that autopsy. Her coffee was no doubt cold and unpalatable. As she approached her neglected coffee and the detective beside it she noticed steam coming up from the cup.

Sherlock didn't look up from the microscope when he addressed her curiosity. "You were busy and clearly wouldn't have time to stop for a coffee break so I drank yours and got you a fresh cup when you started to close up Jane Doe." He adjusted the microscope but still didn't look up from the slide. Molly thanked him and silently sat on the stool next to him. She warmed her hands on the mug and sipped the hot liquid, relishing the caffeine and the fact that Sherlock knew exactly how she liked her coffee.

"What are you looking at?" Sherlock pushed away from the microscope at her questioning and gestured for her to look. She peered through and took in the shape and coloring of what appeared to be skin follicles. "Skin? Was this in the trace I took from her hair?" Sherlock nodded. "It isn't human or any other species I recognize immediately. Reptilian maybe?" Sherlock nodded again. He reached past her, just brushing her arm.

He flipped open her file and pointed to the printout he had just added. "Snake skin to be exact. She appears to have had snakes in her hair." Molly furrowed her brow in confusion. Sherlock could almost see the wheels turning in her head.

Molly grabbed his arm suddenly and turned a startled expression upon him. "Wait, Sherlock. In the myth you think we're in, Perseus slays the gorgon Medusa before rescuing Andromeda. Is she our Medusa?" He had already been thinking about this and he could see no other explanation. That means that the mysterious deaths that had been showing up and the random shooting in which, luckily, no one had died would soon be at an end. This also meant that

he would be "sacrificed" soon and that Molly would have to save him. "Yes Molly. I think this is our Medusa. I think this little story is just about finished."

The Next Morning

John Watson stood in his flat sipping tea. The last week had been one of the most stressful weeks in his entire acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes. Even during the time when he was "dead" at least Sherlock hadn't been running around manic and uncontrollable. For a man who claimed to be a high-functioning sociopath, he held on to guilt with a death grip. Sherlock took the death of every person rolled into Molly's morgue as a personal failing. Even if the person wasn't a victim of the Cetus Sebastian Moran. Two days ago he nearly cried over the body of an elderly man that had died of natural causes at home. The stress was getting to John but at least he had Mary and Rebecca. Sherlock went home to an empty flat every night.

The sound of a parcel being left on his front stoop caught John's attention and pulled him from his place of pondering. A red package with a black bow was awaiting him on the other side of his door. No name or address were found and John cautiously took the package under his arm and went immediately to St. Bart's. The parcel was x-rayed and deemed safe to open. John slid the ribbon off and pulled the flaps open revealing within a letter. It was written on creamy stationery. It was addressed to "The Oracle" so Sherlock had John read it aloud to everyone.

"Okay." John furrowed his brow but did as Sherlock said. "'From whence you fell so shall you now ascend. The sacrifice shall be chained among the rocks and left for the beast.' Well that was weird. What do you want to do Sherlock?" John looked up to see that his friend had left and that Molly looked absolutely stricken. John knew immediately that Sherlock had already gone to meet his fate. "That insufferable git. I assume he told you to ask us not to follow."

Molly nodded and hiccupped back tears. "He's sorry John but we've already talked about this. It's best to just let this little myth play itself out. Your part has been played. Now it's my turn." She sounded confident but John could see the fear in her eyes. He pulled her into a tight hug. She sighed but quickly pulled back. "John I need to ask for a favor."

One Hour Later

It was a rather sad turn of events that led to Molly Hooper standing on the roof of St. Bart's with a gun pointed at her. It, however, wasn't very surprising considering it was Sherlock Holmes she was connected to and it was Sherlock Holmes who got her into this mess in the first place. She couldn't really blame him, not that she ever did, he hadn't exactly _asked _to be held hostage. She suppressed the urge to rethink her life decisions once again as she tuned back into what the man holding the gun was saying. He really was droning on, but then again, they always do don't they? The cynical voice in her head sounded just like Sherlock and she wasn't sure if that was an entirely healthy development.

"You cannot stop me!" The raspy voice of her would-be killer hysterically yelled. She forced herself not to roll her eyes at that particular gem of insanity and instead asked the one question that kept popping up. How had this all started? Ah yes, hurbis. Wonderful thing that.

"Miss Adler assured me that your deaths would be at my discretion. Insulting her was your biggest mistake." He spit out the words and pushed the gun into the side of Sherlock's head. Sherlock wasn't looking too good. He was pale, bloody nosed, and already had two gloriously painful looking black eyes. "Your brother started all of this and your housekeeper didn't help matters."

Molly reached slowly behind herself and pulled her little surprise from her waistband. It was good that Moran was distracted and apparently mentally unstable. It gave her just the right amount of time to act out her and Sherlock's plan. It was simple to be honest but, in their experience at least, it was the simplest plans that worked the best. Molly whipped the gun around and took aim. Moran barely registered the gun in her hand before a bullet slammed into his right leg causing him to cry out in pain. He fell to the ground hard and took Sherlock with him. Moran's gun fell from his grip and landed just out of reach. Molly sent a silent thank you to her father for the shooting lessons when she was ten and to Greg for keeping them up-to-date. Sherlock was quickly secured and Moran was taken into custody. Everything seemed to settle and fall back into place.

Two Months Later

Molly stood outside of the door to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock had invited her here earlier in the day and hadn't told her why. he simply said to arrive at seven in the evening and to dress nice but casual. Molly did as she was told and now couldn't really understand why she was here. The door flew open and Sherlock ushered her in. What lay before her was wholly unexpected. The nicest meal and table setting that Molly had ever seen was displayed before her and the food smelled amazing. She sat down in the chair that Sherlock pulled out for her and they ate in companionable silence. Finally the suspense was too much for her and, after a delicious meal of braised chicken and tiramisu for dessert, she asked him why she was there. His only answer was to pull her from her seat and begin to dance with her to music that seemingly came from nowhere.

It was at the end of this magical night that Sherlock kissed Molly on the cheek and whispered in her ear. "I told you Perseus whisks Andromeda off of her feet. You, Molly Hooper, most certainly have done so to me."

The End


End file.
